


Hands-free

by shamusandstone (theleaveswant)



Category: Death Proof (2007)
Genre: Bondage, Community: kink_bingo, Consensual Kink, Discipline, Dom/sub, F/F, Flogging, Food, Humiliation, Risk Aware Consensual Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-09-01
Updated: 2008-09-01
Packaged: 2017-10-22 03:28:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/233237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theleaveswant/pseuds/shamusandstone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Serving dinner is just one of the things Zoë can do with her hands tied behind her back—or cuffed to a shoulder-height spreader bar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hands-free

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to wilde_stallyn for the beta.

Kim pushes herself away from the table. She dabs her mouth with a napkin, then drops it on her cleared plate.

“No more, then?” Zoë asks from her perch on the arm of the chair opposite Kim, well aware of her cheeky tone and what could happen if Kim decides to take issue with it.

“No, thank you, Slut, that's quite enough. Damn tasty, though.”

“Ready for dessert?”

“Not just yet.” The meringue was probably set by now, but it wouldn't hurt to let it sit a bit longer while she worked her appetite back up. “Come here.”

Zoë rises and comes around the table, twisting her upper body to avoid grazing her knuckles on the stucco. She is naked but for a lace-trimmed satin apron tied at her neck and waist, and of course the padded leather cuffs and collar that pin her out on the lacquered spreader rod like a fetish model scarecrow. Kim, meanwhile, is subtly macho in a silk camisole and the tailored suit that Zoë calls her Godfather costume.

Kim pulls a cigar from the box on the table and holds it expectantly. Zoë leans down to retrieve the lighter from next to the box, sparks a flame and brings it to the cigar's tip. Kim sucks in smoke, lets it go, then cups Zoë's cheek with her free hand and draws her in for a kiss. “How're your arms?” she asks, reaching to squeeze each outstretched hand.

“Pretty good, I think. Circulation's still okay.”

“In that case, you can clear the table while I enjoy my smoke, and then we'll get you off your feet and give you a break from all that nasty ol' gravity. Just pile the dishes by the sink, don't try to load the dishwasher.” Zoë rolls her eyes—she'd practiced that step, she knows she can do it, but Kim vetoed the suggestion (“When you go back to Auckland you can break as many dishes as your twisted little heart desires, but under my roof you do as I say and you do it with a smile”). “Put the leftovers in the fridge and turn off the kitchen light. When you've done that, go into the bedroom. Turn down the bed, bring out the toy-box, light the candles and wait for me there on your knees next to the bed.”

“Yes, Boss.”

Kim gives Zoë an affectionate pat on the ass, then settles into her chair. She puffs contentedly at the cigar while the blonde gathers up place setting and accoutrements, stacking them the way she's already determined she must to balance one-handed for the trip to the kitchen.

They've each put a lot of thought and preparation into this scene and it was going well so far. The genesis had come about a week ago, when after a night of rough sleep (adjusting to the unfamiliar quiet of this Vancouver apartment, borrowed from strangers for the duration of the shoot, and periodically assaulted by somnolent Zoë, kicking and punching her way through REM and the memorization of a new fight sequence) Kim had responded to the Kiwi octopus' early morning display of affection by slapping the pointy lunatic in a pair of genuine police-issue double-locking handcuffs (souvenir from the cop thriller she worked last month) and commanding her to make breakfast. Zoë had, after a perfunctory attempt to shake or slip the cuffs and with irritating ease, wriggled her arms from behind to in front of her body, and proceeded to whip up a delicious, but hardly impeded, pancake feast. The premise at least was good, so Kim suggested a more challenging sequel, to which Zoë eagerly consented.

Kim drafted a scenario in rough strokes, leaving logistics and execution in Zoë's hands, with vague promises of “consequences” apropos to performance. Zoë thus far has shown a pleasing devotion to the task, approaching it with the same energetic focus she puts into her work—which is probably how she's able to move now with such contained grace, rather than stumbling around trailing chaos and destruction like she usually does at home. She's blocked it out in detail, how to navigate the apartment and where things need to be in order for her to reach them with her hands tied. Most components of the meal (pasta sauce, greens and dressing for salad, all the layers of the pavlova) were prepared in advance, so that once Kim locked her into the cuffs she had only to heat, assemble, and serve. All in all she's feeling pretty smug about the situation, but it's Kim's turn now to direct the action, and her decision to reward or punish.

Kim watches Zoë's round white ass peeking through the back of the apron. She stubs out the cigar in the ashtray, savoring the last chocolatey breath, then follows her slave to the bedroom.

Zoë shivers when Kim steps up behind her and runs her strong little hands down the length of her scarecrow arms. She wobbles a bit, precarious on her knees with arms stretched almost taut.

Kim's fingers reach her hands and squeeze, finding them still warm. Good. She looks around the room, at the covers folded neatly at the foot of the bed and the candles flickering on trays on dresser, window-ledge and desk. “I have to say, Bitch, I am impressed. You've done a very commendable job tonight, even without considering your restricted mobility.” She gives Zoë a moment to bask in this praise while she unties and discards the apron, gently stroking her neck, then leans in brush her full lips against the pink shell of an ear. “However . . .”

Zoë cringes ecstatically. There it is, the word she both craves and dreads, the verbal axis on which their relationship keeps turning. She waits, trembling a little, as Kim leaves her side to select a weapon from the Rubbermaid in which she stores her toys. She doesn't turn her head to see what it might be, just steels herself and savors the uncertainty.

“Lean forward on the bed,” Kim says. “Put your face right down.”

Zoë does as she's told and Kim steps back into place between her legs. “Where to begin . . . first of all, coming right to the door and kneeling for me when I get home? Very submissive, but a little too eager. Give me a minute to get my shoes off before you're all up in my face like,” she mocks with a whining tone and an overdone accent “'are we gonna play now, Kim?' 'Kim, put the cuffs on,' 'Kim, I'm a greedy hussy' and all that bullshit. Better yet, you just wait quietly and let me decide when I'm ready to tie you up. That's two to teach you patience.” She hits her twice in quick succession, flicking her across the upper back with the tips of the cat's braided leather tails.

“You did a good job of cleaning the place up, though, I'll give you that.” Slender fingers, as soft bare as in calfskin driving gloves, smooth over Zoë's tingling back, gentle as a sigh, and she melts into the touch. “And Sly Stone on the stereo, little corny but a nice touch nonetheless.” The hand goes away and Zoë readies for the next volley.

“The meal . . . overall, very satisfying. I really have just a couple of small complaints.” She counts each one off with a whipstroke. “Too much salad dressing. Spaghetti was undercooked. Garnishing was sloppy.” She pauses, tickling the cat lightly over Zoë's skin. “And then there's the wine.”

Zoë winces. That's the tone she's learned to fear.

“Do you know what you did wrong with the wine?” She nods her head against the bedspread, and gets a thwack on the back. “Say it. What did you do wrong?”

“I spilled it.”

“Where did you spill it?”

“On the tablecloth.”

“How much did you spill?”

“Only a few drops.”

Thwack. “Don't go fishing for pain by giving me bullshit answers. You'll get the punishment you deserve, don't doubt it, but you'll wait for it like a good girl. Nobody likes a smart-ass masochist.”

Zoë thinks but doesn't say, 'you do.'

“How many drops?”

“I don't know.”

“I know how many. I counted them. And now you're going to count them for me. Are you ready?”

Zoë takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly. “Yes, Boss.” And they begin to count, five licks of the cat, then seven, then repeated again until Zoë lists each numeral up to eleven without missing one or losing her place. These blows are harder than those earlier and delivered with a fast, even precision; it should be easy to keep track but Zoë's pain response system is kicking in now, too much electrical and chemical activity frolicking at once and verbal skills get a bit lost in the shuffle.

Eleven tiny stains accounted for, Kim lets the flogger hang by her side. She watches railroads of pink welts blooming on Zoë's skin. She'd like to mark her more, but Manny-the-makeup-artist has already told her off for disturbing his canvas. Later, then; once the production wraps, or at least once they're done the sequences in skimpy costumes.

“Tell me what you want,” she commands.

Zoë takes a moment to blink words into coherency. “I want you to use me. I want to pleasure you.”

“Up,” Kim barks, and helps Zoë to her feet. She spins her around and pushes her back onto the bed. As someone who falls for a living, Zoë knows how to strike a mattress to best visual effect. Spread out there on the sheet, naked with her legs crossed below the knee and her fair hair haloed around her head, she looks less like a scarecrow than a holy icon, Our Lord Jesus Christ Upon the Cross, Amen. Blasphemous thought, seeing in any mortal the likeness of the Son of God, especially this irreverent woman, but it would be lying to deny that she puts His name on Kim's lips with some regularity.

“Tell me what you want,” she repeats, and Zoë closes her eyes, cream skin blushing strawberry across her face, her bare breasts.

“I want to taste you,” she says. “Please, Kim, let me drink you.”

Kim is already slick and steaming beneath her clothes, but those words set her flaming like a match to a pool of gasoline. She stands where she can see and be seen, watching Zoë lick her lips in fervent anticipation, as she strips off her jacket, pulls down her suspender straps one at a time and steps out of her trousers, peels off her camisole and shimmies out of her underwear.

Zoë squirms on the bed, almost panting with the desire to reach out and caress the body gleaming before her in the candlelight, but with her arms bound it is a challenge just to raise her head to watch. Lifting her upper body to sitting would take an Herculean effort and probably earn her another beating (fine) and the postponement of what she most wants now (not fine). Instead she waits, so patient it hurts, as Kim climbs onto the bed and crawls feline over her prone form.

She trails kisses like breadcrumbs up Zoë's body to her collar. Hovers her soft mouth teasing over Zoë's face until she lunges upwards to meet her lips but pulls away at the last second. Again. Finally lets herself be captured in a fierce and lingering kiss. When they break apart she scales a little further. She crouches, arranging her legs around the obstacles of arms and bar.

Kim hovers over Zoë's wanting mouth, her naked sex like a fresh ripe fruit, soft flesh juicy with nectar. She lowers herself slowly, pulls back from Zoë's too-eager first connection, then lowers again. There. That's more like it.

Hungrily but with more control now Zoë laps and luxuriates in this prize she has been offered. She works methodically, rapturously, until Kim is moaning, gulping air. Zoë can't see the frown of concentration that knots Kim's brow, but she can feel the tremors building in her thighs as she tilts forward, fingers flailing, locking onto the headboard for support. Her back arches, her toes curl, and her tongue twists around syllables as she hisses a prayer and an encouragement, and then she falls sideways over on the bed.

Zoë giggles when Kim untangles herself. “Look, Ma, no hands!” Kim punches her in the ribs and Zoë laughs harder, so she sets to tickling her exposed ribs. Zoë, defenseless, bucks and kicks, but Kim manages to get on top of her, a knee between wet thighs and her weight pinning her down.

“I don't need my hands either.”


End file.
